


Six Thousand Years Young

by LilliputianDuckling



Series: Growing Up Is Optional [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Addiction, Adoption, Babies, Baby Elves, Birth, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Depersonalization, Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-War of the Ring, Predator Adopts Prey, Relationship Problems, Sailing To Valinor, Silmarils, The One Ring - Freeform, Valinor, Wakes & Funerals, War of the Ring, Weddings, fantasy race relations, keeping up with the elronds, sort of probably i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-07 02:59:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12224355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilliputianDuckling/pseuds/LilliputianDuckling
Summary: A 100 Themes Challenge fic featuring Lord Elrond of Rivendell.Welcome to hell, my lovelies.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waywardrogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrogue/gifts).



> I've promised to do a 100 Themes challenge with waywardrouge as moral support for their own, so... here we are. 100 drabbles about sad elves. 
> 
> One sad elf. A sad elf that knows other sad elves. 
> 
> This fic won't really be in any chronological order, but I will do my best to make time and location clear throughout. Tags will be added as new chapters are uploaded. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....So, I was looking some things up for a later chapter, and came across Elrond's and Elros' birth year in The History of Middle-earth, Vol. XI: The War of the Jewels, V: The Tale of Years. 
> 
> Guys, they're only six years old in this scene, I Am So Upset.

Mother had told them to hide.

Elrond pressed his cheek against the inside of the wardrobe. Elros was pressed against his side. They could hear screaming outside their tent. Mother had grabbed the pretty stone from her jewelry box and told the twins to hide when the screaming started, and then she left. She hadn’t come back. The screaming had only gotten louder.

 _She’ll come back_ , Elrond thought, squeezing his brother’s hand. _She’ll come back for us._

The screaming died down after a while, leaving the boys sitting in silence. Elros tried to get up, but Elrond forced him to sit still.

“Let me go!” Elros hissed. Elrond shook his head.

“Nana said to hide.”

“It’s over!”

“Nana will come get us when it’s over.”

“Let me go, you big baby – “

The doors to the wardrobe opened suddenly, and the twins toppled out into a small heap on the floor. Elrond looked up – “Nana!” – and froze. Standing over them was not their mother, Elwing, but an elvish man with long black hair dressed in armor covered in blood. The man was holding a sword.

Elrond yelped and grabbed at his brother, attempting to back up back into the wardrobe. The man’s face was shocked, and his eyes softened a bit at the motion.

“I… I’m not going to hurt you. See?” He took his bloody sword and sheathed it before kneeling down to be at the twins’ level. “This… is Elwing’s tent, is it not? You… I did not know she had children.”

“MAGLOR!”

Elrond and Elros jumped back. Elros shoved Elrond behind himself, sending the grey-eyed elfing toppling onto his butt inside the wardrobe with a less-than-dignified squawk. The elven man – Maglor – did not rise as the new elf stormed into the tent, merely looking to the side so as to keep both the twins and the red-haired newcomer in his sights.

“Brother….” Maglor said in soft, warning tones.

“Come on,” the red-haired elf snapped. “We’re wasting our time here. Elwing the White has fled the field.”

Fled the…?

Maglor closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “She left?”

“She took the Silmaril with her. We’ve no reason to linger. Enough blood as been spilt in this pointless endeavor. We must regroup; find Amras – “

Maglor’s voice was almost too quiet to hear, but that didn’t stop Elrond from catching the soft “Amras is dead” that left the stranger’s lips, nor did he miss the way the redhead’s grip on his own blade laxed or the shutter in his breath.

The silence was broken by Elros raising his head high, grey eyes wild as he stamped his foot. “You’re lying! Mother wouldn’t leave us!”

The redhead’s eyes shifted and hardened, staring down Elrond’s dear sweet stupid brother. Elrond scrambled to get up, tugging on Elros’ sleeve to make him stand down, make him _shut up_ –

“She’ll come back!” Elros would not be deterred. “She’ll come back for us, you’ll see!”

Elrond was watching the redheaded elf’s blade, watching his hand grip it’s handle tighter, watching his knuckles turn white and shake.

“Murderers!” Elros spat in Maglor’s face. Maglor carefully whipped the spit from his cheek. Was it careful? Or was it deliberate? Was this patience, or a warning? Elrond tugged on Elros’ sleeve again.

“Your mother,” the redheaded elf growled, “is a thief and a coward.”

“Liar!”

“Elros, _stop_ ,” Elrond begged.

“Kano,” the redhead addressed the elf he’d previously called Maglor, “we are done here. Let’s go.”

Maglor or Kano or whatever his name was didn’t move. “We can’t leave them here, Maedhros.”

“Can’t we?” Maedhros snapped, pointing his sword at Elros and Elrond. “Let their own kin take care of them.”

Maglor spoke again in that soft tone, as if he thought speaking quiet enough might keep the twins from hearing or lessen the blow. “We _killed_ their kin….”

“More elves will come through here. They’re not our business. You said it yourself, brother: we killed their kin. We're not taking them with us.”

Now Maglor looked angry. He finally stood, rounding on Maedhros. He shot a hand out, gesturing aggressively at the twin elflings. “Because that worked out _so well_ the last time you let other elves care for twin children from the line of Lúthien Tinúviel,” the man snarled, sounding for the first time in this conversation cruel. Maedhros stepped back as if he’d been smacked.

“That – I never meant – “

“It doesn’t _matter_ what you _meant!_ I cannot bear to watch another set of twins _die_ from our _negligence - !_ ” Maglor’s voice caught, and he tore his eyes from his elder brother. Silence stretched on.

Elrond knew one thing: the dark-haired elf was right. Their mother had _left them._ And he and Elros were clueless as to how to take care of themselves. If everyone was dead, who knew how long it would take for them to be found? They’d starve, in all likelihood.

Elrond wasn’t about to watch his brother starve.

“…She’ll come back,” Elrond broke into the silence, seeing that Maedhros was neither denying or acquiescing. His eyes snapped to Elrond, and the little elf held the kinslayer’s gaze. “She’ll trade you for us. She wouldn’t leave us, she’ll… she’ll give you your pretty rock. She’ll trade it for us.”

If Elrond didn’t know better, he’d think the look in the kinslayer’s eyes was pity.

“ _Please_ , Nelyo,” Maglor pressed, his back still toward Elrond and Elros.

“…They’re _your_ responsibility, _hánoincë_ ….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noldorin:  
> "Nana" - "mommy." (The same in Sindarin.)  
> "Hánoincë" - "háno" means "brother;" "-incë" often makes a diminutive in Noldorin. So, "hánoincë" - "baby brother."  
> "Kano" and "Nelyo" - ancient elves followed naming conventions that gave them multiple names and multiple nicknames. These are an example of just a few of the many, many names of the sons of Fëanor. You will probably see them again. 
> 
> Up Next: "Complicated."


	2. Complicated

“Mr. Elrond, sir? I have a question.”

Elrond looked up from his planning, lists of names and pros and cons and reasons for each person suggested to accompany Frodo Baggins on the quest to destroy the One Ring, to find Peregrine Took standing in his office, rocking back and forth in his hobbit toes, hands clasped behind his back.

Elrond set down his lists, smiling congenially toward the youngest of the hobbits. “Hello, Mr. Took. What ever is the matter? If this is about the quest, no one would blame you if you changed your mind….”

“Oh no!” Pippin’s eyes went wide, like that thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “It’s nothing like that, Mr. Elrond, sir! It’s just, you said something at that super-secret meeting I wasn’t supposed to be at?”

“Mmhmm….”

“And I’ve been thinkin’ about it for _hours_. Merry says I can be one-track minded like that, just latchin’ onto a topic and not letting go until my curiosity is saticfied, I lose sleep over it, you know, and we have this quest we’re goin’ on soon, so I thought, maybe, I should probably be well rested, but I’m still thinking about that thing you said, so I thought, you know, I should just ask ‘im and be done with it! That’s what I’ll do! So – “

“Mr. Took, what did you want to know? I said a great many things in that meeting….”

“Oh!” Pippin blinked and seemed to have to think about that for a minute. “…Oh, yes! Why did you call your Papa your ‘sire?’”

Elrond blinked.

_“You remember?” Frodo Baggins had blurted out. “But I thought, I thought that the fall of Gil-galad was a long age ago.”_

_“My memory reaches back even to the Elder Days. Eärendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin before its fall; and my mother was Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Lúthien of Doriath. I have seen three ages in the West of the world, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories.”_

“…I suppose… I did say that.” Elrond wasn’t totally sure, out of all that was spoken of in that gathering of men, elves, dwarves, hobbits, and wizards, how that off-hand little statement had caught anyone’s attention. He hadn’t really meant anything by it, not truly. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Took, I don’t really understand what you mean. Are you sure you are not more interested in the Ring? Or the Battle of Mordor? Or… what is this about my sire?”

“See, there you go again!” Pippin pointed a small, chubby finger at Elrond, and the Lord of Rivendell felt evil for allowing this literal child to shepherd the One Ring into Mordor. “You called him your _sire_ , not your Papa. Why?”

Elrond bit his lip, eyeing the Took for some time. “…I suppose… that is because he is not my _atto_.”

“Wossat mean?”

Elrond cleared his throat. “You’re an inquisitive hobbit, aren’t you?”

“Merry says I ask too many questions, like I, you know, like I don’t really let things go? Like, this one time when Estella Bolger had this great big bruise on her neck, an’ I asked her ‘Estella! What’s that big ol’ bruise on your neck from?’ An’ she told me to be quiet, an’ Merry stepped on my poor foot! But I wanted to know how she got a bruise like that, so – “

“Yes, Mr. Took, I quite understand.”

“Oh! So you know all about hickies, Mr. Elrond?”

“Mr. Took. I am quite old.”

“Gosh… I aint never thought about _elves_ having hickies before – “

“Eärendil was my mother’s husband. He is my blood.” Elrond cut in, hoping to distract the hobbit with his earlier prying. “He was half-elven, as was my mother. He was briefly the leader of the Havens of Sirion with my mother, but… he left when I was young. I have little memory of him, and my mother left only a few years after that. We were raised by my _attat_.”

“We?”

Elrond closed his eyes. “I have a brother.”

“Ooooooooh.” Pippin was quiet for a moment. Elrond thought, maybe, he might finally leave him alone and let him get back to work. If wishes were horses….

“I’ve never heard elvish like that before. What does that mean? Attat?”

“It’s Quenya. It means ‘fathers,’ much like ‘edeir’ in Noldorin.”

“Ooooooh.” And, because the Valar are evidentially _not_ merciful – “Wait, you have _two_ Papas???”

 _Oh, Varda, give him strength…._ “Two brothers. It… hm. It is complicated.”

“Were they family? Like how Bilbo took in Frodo when his mama and papa died?”

Elrond opened his mouth to say ‘no,’ and closed it _. It wasn’t like that_ , he wanted to tell the hobbit, _They were family of my heart, not my blood._

But that would be wrong. In some abstract way, Maglor and Maedhros Fëanorion _were_ his blood. Eärendil was the son of Idril, daughter of Turgon, son of Fingolfin, half-brother of Fëanor, father of Maedhros and Maglor. His mother was Elwing, daughter of Nimloth, daughter of Galathil, brother of Celeborn, husband of Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin, half-brother of Fëanor, father of Maedhros and Maglor.

A great big mess of a family tree as ancient as time that stretches on and on and weaves back into itself. He was sure, if anyone could understand, it would be hobbits, but Elrond didn’t want to give himself the headache. Perhaps he would discuss it with Bilbo, later.

“It’s complicated,” he settled on, for now.

He thought of the hands of his _Atto_ , burned and blackened and hidden away all the time.

Hands that killed. Hands that hurt. Hands that tortured, and maimed, and sinned beyond redemption. Hands that destroyed Elrond’s family.

Hands that healed. Hands that brought comfort. Hands that fed, and cradled, and played songs to make kings and warriors weep. Hands that raised him.

“…It’s complicated….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> "Atto" - "Daddy." Supposedly a word in "actual 'family' use." Also used in a children's play for "thumb" and "big toe."  
> "Attat" - "Fathers" Plural. 
> 
> Noldorin:  
> "Edeir" - "Fathers" Plural. 
> 
>  
> 
> Quenya is the old language spoken by the High Elves. It has since evolved over time into many dialects, including (but not limited to) modern Noldorin. Written word, Tengwar, was invented by Fëanor and is colloquially known as "Fëanorian Letters." Interestingly, it's Sindarin that is most colloquially referred to simply as "Elvish" and the form most used, especially by non-elves, essentially making it the elvish "business language." 
> 
> Modern Noldorin and Sindarin have the same words for "Daddy" and "Father" - "Ada" (familiar) and "Adar" (formal).
> 
> Next Up: Making History


	3. Making History

Sauron was dead.

It was like Elrond could feel it himself. A ripple went through the battlefield of Dagorlad. The orcs and goblins and uruk-hai froze, turning in unison toward the base of Mount Doom. Elrond followed his enemy’s gaze, finding the towering figure of Sauron crumple to his knees and disintegrate into nothingness.

The servants of Morgoth panicked. With no orders coming, they ran and scattered. Some fought, but they fought without guidance. It was quick work for the remaining elves and men to slaughter the evil that remained. Some fled the field, hotly pursued by the armies of Gil-Galad and Elendil, eager to avenge their fallen kings. Elrond’s command slammed one of the battering rams against the walls of Barad-dûr, and the Dark Tower _cracked_.

Elrond ran toward the base of Mount Doom, trusting his siege-train to level Barad-dûr without his direct oversight. He saw the figure of Gil-Galad, golden armor and thick tumbles of hair laid out in the dirt surrounded by a small gathering of soldiers. The elves stood around, looking lost and confused, unsure what to do with their grief.

“ _ETTA!_ ” Elrond cried out. The soldiers made a path for Elrond as he barreled through them. The half-elf dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch his cousin and former caretaker, but yanked back as his hands _burned_ on Gil-Galad’s armor. The High King of the Noldor was unrecognizable, his face badly burned. Aeglos was snapped in half at his side.

Tears welled up in Elrond’s eyes and he leaned over the body of his fallen cousin, allowing himself to grieve. His body shuttered and he choked out a sob. His tears splashed against Gil-Galad’s eyelids, sliding off into the mass of hair. It was almost as if the High King too was crying, from Halls of Mandos itself.

“ _Mesta, melda ettanya….”_ Elrond whispered, and rose to his feet. He surveyed the field, finding Isildur, son of Elendil, standing over his father’s body and the smoldering remains of Sauron’s black armor. He had a broken sword in one hand and was holding something in the other, which he stared down at in wonder.

Elrond frowned and approached the descendants of his brother, one lost to death, the other left alone to carry the burden of their line.

“Isildur?” Elrond called to him. Isildur started, looking up at Elrond.

“Lord Elrond….” the Man said in an apparent daze. “Sauron is dead. I… I killed him.”

“You’ve saved us all,” Elrond smiled. Isildur still looked distracted, looking down at the item in his hand. Elrond frowned, peering around at the glitter of gold in the Man’s gloved hand. “What is that?”

Isildur took a moment to speak, eventually holding it up for Elrond to see. Between his thick fingers, he pinched a small, featureless ring. “I cut it from the Dark Lord’s hand….”

Elrond didn’t like the feel of the ring. He glanced from it, to the remains of Sauron’s armor. Sauron had been a towering figure. The ring looked small in comparison – small enough for Isildur to wear, despite the Man being comparatively petite to the fallen Maia it originated from.

Elrond’s mouth wobbled into a concerned expression. “We ought to destroy it, yes?”

“…huh?” Isildur looked up at him, and blinked. “What? No! Why would we do that?”

Elrond raised his eyebrows. “It is the Ring of Power, Isildur. It is what brought rot and ruin upon men and dwarves.  Why wouldn’t we destroy it?”

“Lord Elrond is right, Isildur.” Círdan appeared at Elrond’s side. The Sinda elf looked tiered; truly, Círdan always looked tired, old enough to have grown a white, full beard. It was a wonder he didn’t sleep all the time and shout as elflings to get off his lawn. “That thing was made by evil for evil. Nothing good will come of keeping it.”

“It holds no power now,” Isildur scoffed. “Look. It cools, even now. The power of Sauron leaves this place, and this ring along with it. It is no more than a bit of jewelry.”

“…Then why not destroy it? Just to be safe?” Elrond pressed. Círdan crossed his arms over his armored chest.

“Because it’s mine!” Isildur snapped, eyes wild. “I am owed this!” Elrond and Círdan each took a step back, and Isildur seemed to come back to himself. “Sorry. It is only… I’ve lost my father. I’ve lost my _brother_. I am owed recompense.”

“A weregild,” Círdan said flatly, eyeing Isildur disbelievingly.

Elrond cast soft, sad eyes toward Isildur. “Was taking Sauron’s life not enough?”

“ _No_ ,” Isildur snarled through his teeth, pushing past the two elves. “It is _not_.”

Elrond did not stop Isildur from marching off the field with the little golden ring clutched tight in his hand.

In time, some things that should not have been forgotten would become lost. History would become legend. Legend would become myth.

And Elrond would live to regret this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> "Etta" - "cousin."  
> "Mesta, melda ettanya" - "Good bye, my dear cousin."  
> Mesta: Bye. Melda: beloved, dear, sweet. -nya: pronominal suffix, 1st person sg. possessive, "my." 
> 
>  
> 
> There was an Old Noldorin word for cousin - "wanūro"(male)/"wanūre"(female) - and while I would normally have Elrond speak Old Noldorin where words or phrases are given, as it is also called "Fëanorian," I chose the Quenya word for two reasons: 1) simply, it is cuter and sounds more affectionate to the ear, and 2) I see Gil-Galad as viewing Maglor as a kidnapper (along with a kinslayer), and thus would not take kindly to Elrond using Fëanorian words. 
> 
> Weregild: a price value for a person or item to be paid by a thief or killer if the item is stolen or person is killed. Weregilds were largely replaced with corporal punishment. 
> 
> Up Next: Rivalry


	4. Rivalry

It began with the birth of Elladan and Elrohir.

Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it began when Elrond returned from Mount Doom alive, dressed in full, bloodied armor, hale and with a mostly intact army at his back, where Thranduil had been stuck caring for the wounded and burying the Sinda dead – burying his father, and two-thirds of his army.

Perhaps it began long before then, King Oropher’s hatred of the Noldor seeping into his son, constant comparisons between what they did or did not have, what they did or did not deserve. A constant demand to be better than someone who barely knew he existed – to be better than everyone.

Perhaps it ran blood deep. Frustration that there was no High King of the Sinda. That they were not counted among the High Elves. That their skills and material goods were seen as lesser. That they were seen as dimmer, slower, uncivilized. Where they not also of the Eldar? Was loyalty such a crime? Was it not a _Sinda_ that won the love of a Maia? Was it not the _Noldor_ who brought the return of Morgoth?

However it started, Elrond first noticed it when the King and Queen of the Woodland Realm arrived in Rivendell to pay their respects to himself and Celebrían on the birth of their twins.

Thranduil and his wife arrived looking as if they’re recently had a lovers’ spat; Thranduil had the appearance of one who’d been sucking on a lemon for an hour, and Calenloth was red-faced, her arms crossed tight over her chest. They bowed and curtsied stiffly, a Silvan elf depositing their gift with the others.

“Many congratulations to you and your family,” Thranduil said in clipped, icy tones. He glanced down at Elrohir, sleeping peacefully in the crook of Elrond’s arm, and his expression turned almost hurt. Calenloth’s anger had cooled, and she was staring at Celebrían holding Elladan with open longing.

They were even worse when Arwen was born.

The announcement of Calenloth’s pregnancy was nothing less than an extravagant boast and _fuck you_ to Rivendell. Many mention was made to the babe’s purely elven lineage, and the phrase _future prince or princess of the Woodland Realm_ might as well have been bold and underlined. Thranduil did not have Elrond’s pedigree, but he had the title – never mind that Elrond qualified for High King of the Noldor, and simply turned it down. Elrond mailed him his polite congratulations.

No announcement came after the birth of Prince Legolas. In time, news of the fall of Amon Lanc and the death of Queen Calenloth reached Rivendell. By the time Elrond arrived in the new Elvenking’s Halls, Thranduil’s son was already toddling around a new and pitiable kingdom on two feet.

Thranduil would not deny a shipment of food, but he rejected Elrond’s offer of aid in reconstruction.  

“We do not need _help_ from the likes of the Noldor,” Thranduil hissed. “Go back to your _homely house_ and your _children_ and _wife_.”

His affections did not warm after Celebrían sailed West.

The Elvenking cloaked himself in mithril and white gems and necklaces of five hundred emeralds, despite Elrond knowing full well he preferred natural and growing things. Despite Elrond never really _seeing_ Prince Legolas, he felt almost like he knew the lad in a similar way one sometimes felt they knew a hero of legend, from hearing tale of his progress into adulthood from Thranduil.

“Your sons are quite skilled with the bow,” the Sinda would comment on visits to the Last Homely House. And Elrond would not sigh nor roll his eyes, despite knowing good and well he was being baited.

“They are. They hunt orcs for sport and vengeance.”

“Hmm.” Thranduil would hum in a way that seemed synonymous with ‘quaint.’ “Legolas favors the bow, himself. He’s grown quite adept at hunting giant spiders in the forest. His latest kill was bigger than my mount.”

And Elrond did not sigh, nor roll his eyes. “That is quite impressive.”

“You should allow your sons to visit the Greenwood sometime. They could compete together.”

“I’m sure the boys would love a new playmate, should they find the time.”

Part of Elrond knows Thranduil is just as uncomfortable with these games as he is. He knows the king wears a wooden crown in the privacy of his own realm, and that the mithril circlet is merely for show. He knows he would rather have his son safe than lauded. He knows the Elvenking is not as cold and audacious as the mask he wears – Elrond has the gift of foresight; it comes with a few perks.

And yet it is hard not to rise to the challenge. It was almost fun to play up the act, like a game to see who could be the most obnoxiously proud of their child, who could find the gaudiest piece of jewelry in their coffers, who could keep up the ethereal, perfect being act the longest. Elrond was dreadfully outclassed in the area of minxish elegance, but he’s pretty sure by Thranduil’s count that Elrond is ahead in the polls, so he could let him have that.

“Arwen looks _beautiful_ , Elrond. That dress must’ve cost you a pretty penny.”

Elrond watched his daughter marry the love of her life with Thranduil’s son standing beside the King of Gondor along with a dwarf as his best men. It was a moment he’d like to capture in time, a world at peace, a smiling little chosen family happy in the short time they would have together… except…

“It must be a great honor for your daughter to marry a hero of Middle Earth, mortal though he is. Of course, it’s my own honor to count my own son as one of them….”  

It wasn’t Elrond’s _intention_ to give Thranduil the biggest upper hand in acquiescing to Legolas’ request to be one of the Nine Walkers... and a small part of Elrond wished he hadn’t done that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something that gets lost sometimes, especially in the movies, is that not all elves are the same, and the Sindar and Noldor especially have a pretty harsh history together where the Sindar tend to get the shorter end of the stick. 
> 
> And don't think I didn't notice Thranduil wearing a crown of branches and leaves in Mirkwood and a silver circlet into battle in The Hobbit; yes, a circlet is more practical for battle, but it's purely decorative as it provides ZERO protection, and it's vaguely similar to the circlet Legolas wears to Aragorn's coronation which is the ONLY time Legolas bothers with a crown. The Mirkwood royalty just seems to favor more earthy garments in private, with a significantly contrasting showy aesthetic for big, united events.
> 
> Up Next: Unbreakable


	5. Unbreakable

Elros’ hair had turned white long ago.

He was visiting from Númenor. His eldest, Vardamir, had been left to watch over his kingdom. Vardamir’s hair… was also white.

They sat together with a cup of tea and a game of pallanghuzi as Elrond’s people weaved in and out of the room, casting the pair curious looks as they moved around. A young eledhwen scurried over to their table as Elrond captured a shell, seeing Elros’ cup was empty. She grabbed the cup eagerly, running off to the kitchens.

Elrond watched her go, and his heart twinged. His people could see lord’s family age each time they visited, and Rivendell was anxious regarding how much longer they had. Or, perhaps they worried how Elrond’s brother’s and niece’s and nephews’ deaths would affect him.

Elros watched her go as well. He turned back toward Elrond once she was out of sight. His every move seemed to hurt. Elrond reached out to heal his little aches and pains, but his brother smacked his hand away.

“I’m not an invalid, Ellie.” Elros smiled ruefully. “I’m just dying.”

Elrond’s cup of tea slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor. Elros looked at the mess regretfully.

“I could have said that better….”

Elrond had already half risen from his chair, moving to cup his brother’s face. Elros scowled, but allowed his twin this, placing a hand of his own atop Elrond’s.

“I am not _sick_ , Elrond,” he huffed as the elf’s thumb caressed a liver spot beneath his eye. “I’m just… old. And getting _older_. My children are grown, _my children_ are _old_. I don’t think Var will outlive me by long….”

“‘Ro…” Elrond whipped a tear from his brother’s eye. Elros caught his wrist.

“Ellie, I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

Elros cradled Elrond’s hand in his. “My children and I will be gone soon. Amandil is 248… I want… I know he’s grown, but… He’s so _young_ ….”

Amandil appeared to be middle age. If his father’s rate of aging was to go by, he’d only have about 200 years left in him. But Elrond knew what his brother meant.

“Will you watch over him for me? Help him? And his siblings, of course – “

“I promise, ‘Ro. I promise.”

 

_I promise_

“Thanks, grandpa Elrond. I really appreciate this.”

Elrond smiled at his great grandnephew, Elendil. He brought stacks of records from his personal library. Erestor was at his side, looking quite peeved and following the Menfolk around correcting their handling: “ _Maiga_! That manuscript is older than your _grandmother_ , hold that in _both hands_!”

“Anything, Elendil. I just hope my chief counselor and librarian doesn’t kill one of your scribes….”

“A man after my own heart!” Elendil laughed, watching their kinsman berate a young Man for opening an old book flat on the table. Elrond grabbed a book cradle and wordlessly handed it to another scribe.

“He _is_ single, though regretfully, you are married,” Elrond chuckled. Elendil blushed and chuckled, waving him off.

“Happily.”   

“ _DAAAAAAAAAAAAD!”_ Elendil’s youngest child, Írimon, ran into the room, his big sister, Isilmë, hot on his heels. “Isil’s being mean!”

“Don’t believe anything he says!”

“What’s this, now?” Elendil frowned as Erestor hurried over to save his records from whatever fate small, sticky hands might have for them.

“We were just playing!” Isilmë huffed.

“Isil won’t let me be the king!” Írimon stamped his foot.

“You can’t play the king,” Isilmë snapped. “You’re just a baby! An’ Sil’s gonna be _queen_ anyway, so I get to play the queen!”

“Nu-uh! Dad says _I’m_ going to be king!”

Isilmë gave her father an utterly betrayed look, jaw dropped and scandalized. “ _Dad!”_

Elendil squirmed. “Agnatic primogeniture is clear that my heir has to be male – “

“That’s bullshit! You can’t do that!”

“ _Language_ , young lady!”

Elendil’s eldest, Silmariën, stepped into the room and gently tugged on Elrond’s sleeve. “Best leave them to it, hm, Pap-pap?”

Elrond turned to his great great grandniece and smiled, allowing Silmariën to lead him from the room. She wrapped an arm around his waist, like he needed support, and led him to the garden.

“Are you not upset by your father’s choice?” he pressed, curious to the eldest child’s feelings on the matter.

“Hmm? Oh, the kingship thing?” she gave him a rueful look. “The advisers were not quiet in their joy when my _brother_ was born. I was no little girl when my mother birthed him; I knew I was to be shafted my birthright, and had plenty of time to be angry about it before Íri was old enough to remember.” Silmariën shrugged. “I’ve made peace with it.”

Elrond watched her twist a ring ‘round and ‘round her finger. The ring had the shape of two serpents with emerald eyes, one devouring and the other supporting a crown of golden flowers. Elrond had to wonder if her father had given her this priceless family heirloom to sooth the righteous fury of a young woman who lived her whole childhood and early adulthood under the impression she would be king. 

Silmariën turned to him and smiled. “Guess what.”

Elrond blinked. “What?”

“I met someone.”

“I should imagine so; we meet people every day.”

Silmariën laughed and punched him in the arm. “I met a _man_.”

“I should imagine so, considering your people are………..oh. _Oh_.” Elrond raised his eyebrows. Silmariën grinned and made a shushing gesture.

“He wishes to court me, but I haven’t told Papa yet. He’s a nobleman – very handsome, funny, smart…”

“Smart enough to know who’s in charge?” Elrond raised an eyebrow at her, smirking, and she burst into a fit of giggles.

“You know me so well, Pap-pap.”

 

_To love you forever_

“Please look over this, Lord Elrond.”

Elrond frowned, but accepted the paper. He had been called from his home in Rivendell for the very technical job of reviewing a proposed change in the laws of the Númenor. King Aldarion’s proposal went against his counsel’s desires, and they refused to relent without Elrond’s input.

“You want to remove the agnatic primogeniture requirement from the line of succession?” His eyebrows rose, giving his great great great grandnephew a surprised look. It was a strange request, considering he was only king because the law existed in the first place. His other great great great grandnephew, Valandil, son of Silmariën, was giving his beloved cousin a similarly disbelieving look where he lounged against the table.

“We all think your daughter is _adorable_ , Aldarion,” one of the counsel men placated, “but this is how we’ve always done it. Malantur will be a _fine_ king.”

“ _Malantur_ isn’t going to produce an heir any time soon, with that ‘spiritual brother’ of his.”

“Leave him out of this!”  

“We’ll just be right back where he started!”

“Lord Elrond,” another counsel man pressed, “The rules are clear: only the son of the King can be the King's heir or, if he has no son, then the nearest male kinsman of a male descent from Elros Tar-Minyatur shall be King. Malantur is the rightful king after Aldarion.”

“…by that rule… should Aldarion and Malantur both die without a male heir…” he was trying to draw a family tree in his head and was failing, but, it seemed, he thinks… “…after Malantur, it would fall to me.”

There was an immediate denial from the council: “Now see here – “; “We didn’t say that….”; “Is that right?”; “We have _other_ males – _human_ males!”

“ _All,_ ” Aldarion snapped, “through _female lines_. Face it: we’ll have to change the law sooner or later, unless you all want to be a colony of _Rivendell_.”

Elrond sat up. “I am in agreement.” He thought of Silmariën, how strong and capable she was. How she deserved to lead their people, how _good_ she would have been at it. “I have no children either. I am for allowing female heirs.”

“But your brother – “

“Chose the life of Men. I did not. Númenor is for mortals; I would let it remain so.”

“No complaints from me,” Valandil raised two fingers, voice dry.

“…well, if we have your blessing…” the first counselor said, as if he hadn’t been lobbying against his king’s wishes. “But I still think it needs a few clauses.”

“ _Oh?_ ” Aldarion squinted his eyes.

“Just two things,” the counselor insisted. “She should be able to reject the position if she does not want it.”

Aldarion seemed to consider this and found it reasonable.

“And… she must have a prince consort to keep her position, and she cannot die childless.”

Aldarion jumped to his feet with a cry of indignation. The other counsel men immediately jumped for defending their position.

“The other nations won’t respect a Ruling Queen without a man beside her!”

“Even the lady Galadriel has a husband!” This one gestured to Elrond as if he had anything to do with Galadriel being married.

“ _And_ a daughter!”

“The point of this is to ensure the line of kings doesn’t die. If a queen cannot secure a prince – or, I suppose, a princess – then what _good_ is she?”

“ _She would be my daughter, you pig!_ And you would never require such things if she were my son!”

In the end, they could not be swayed. The clauses were added to the amendment and it was passed into law. Princess Ancalimë would be the first Ruling Queen of Númenor.

“Who is this?” Aldarion’s wife, Erendis, snipped, looking over at them as they entered Aldarion’s home. She had jet black hair tied together with a silver fillet bejeweled with a single diamond. There was a toddler in her arms that share her hair and had Elros’ eyes. Elrond’s eyes.

His heart ached.

“More _elves_ , like your good buddy Gil-Galad?”

“Would you drop that? This is Lord Elrond of Rivendell, my ancestor’s brother. He is here as a great service to me.” Aldarion took the toddler from his wife’s arms and she glared at him, gritting her teeth. “Guess what, my precious darling? Gasp! That’s right, Annie; you’re going to be Queen of Númenor. Say thank you to Mr. Elrond.”

“I’m going for a walk,” Erendis snapped, storming toward the door as her husband passed her daughter to Elrond.

“You’re always going for a walk,” Aldarion growled. Elrond cradled Ancalimë in his arms, having become more and more accustomed to carrying babes over these years watching his brother’s family grow well beyond his ability to know them all. “I should call Oromë my love rival, you love the forest so!”

“And I should say the same of Uinen! How long will you stay on dry land _this_ time?!” Erendis slammed the door shut. Aldarion sighed.

“I swear, it’s like she doesn’t even love me anymore…. She knew my love for the sea when she met me, how is this even a surprise for her?”

Elrond hummed sympathetically, cradling Ancalimë to his heart.

 

_Through the bad_

Elrond’s great great great great great great great great great great

great great great

great…

Oh, blast.

Elros’ decedents were really making a mess of things.

At some point, resentment had blossomed in the Númenor over their ancestor’s choice. They envied the elves for their immortality. They began to distrust the Valar, and hated the elves that came from their shores.

Elrond had been forbidden from returning to Númenor some time ago.

He got a few errant letters from his brother’s descendants that remained among the Faithful, but he dared not set foot on that land in these troubling days. He’d planned on it when gentle Inziladûn inherited from his father. His mother had written to him often to practice her Noldorin, but Elrond did not dare write back, least her husband find out his own wife had broken his ban on elvish. But Elrond got busy with the war against Sauron and his armies, and Inziladûn passed away in what seemed like the blink of an eye, and his daughter was forcibly wed to her first cousin, who took Sauron as an adviser and the realm fell under Meklor’s control.

This was a new, shiny circle of hell.

Now, Elendil the second, of the line of Silmariën, was crying into Elrond’s arms in the halls of Lindon. Gil-Galad was fetching a blanket and tea for the tired man, freshly crowned High King of the Dúnedain by the people who fled with him to Middle Earth.

Elrond brushed his hair, ignoring the scratch of the Man’s beard against his neck.

“I don’t know what happened….” His voice cracked with the weight of sorrow repressed for his people. He sniffed hard, snot dripping into his mustache. “He’d been a good friend of my father’s… I don’t see how he could change so – “

“Evil corrupts all it touches, _Elrosion_ ” he whispered into his hair, rocking him back and forth.

“Lord Elrond… what if my father never comes back from Aman? What if… what if he never even _makes it?_ ”

“We have to believe he will – “

“I can’t do this….”

“You have to,” Elrond pulled back and used the ends of his big sleeves to wipe the tears from Elendil’s eyes. “You will be a great king. We will teach you.”

Gil-Galad returned, pressing a cup of tea into Elendil’s hands. Elendil looked up at the High King of the Noldor.

“I want to bring down Sauron,” he gritted out. “I want his _head_ on a _pike_.”

Gil-Galad eyed him for a long moment before slowly nodding, reaching out to clasp the Man’s shoulder. “Me too.”

 

_The good_

“Isildur, stop pacing and go boil some water if you’re so nervous.” Elrond snapped from his position with his face between Isildur’s wife’s legs.

Isildur’s other children were grown, the youngest 51 years old. All three of them were handling their baby brother’s birth a lot calmer than their father was.

“What’s the water for?” Ciryon asked as his father left the room.

“Nothing. He was just _bothering_ me.”

The boys and their mother laughed. Elendil had taken up holding his daughter-in-law’s hand a while ago.

“Alright, _bein dî_ , he’s crowning. I’m going to need you to give me a _push_ – “

Valandil, son of Isildur, was born in Rivendell in SA 3430. Elrond had the babe washed and wrapped in soft, enchanted blankets before passing him into his mother’s arms. The woman was tired, but she smiled gratefully and took her son anyway.

Each of the brothers, Isildur, and proud grandpapa Elendil got a chance to hold the new baby. The boys’ mother took this chance to catch some sleep, so the men were stuck with the babe as they planned for the invasion against Mordor.

Elrond took the baby from Elendil, cradling Valandil in his arms. The baby was small and warm. Elrond hadn’t held a child this new since his first niece.

“…you’re really good at that,” Elendil commented, watching Elrond gingerly rock Valandil while simultaneously setting up the war table.

“I suppose I’m used to it.”

“Do you have children? You haven’t mentioned – “

“No, I do not. Never found the right woman to settle down with, and now… now is not the time to start looking.”

“So how - ?”

Elrond gave Elendil a weak, disappointed look. Elendil pursed his lips for a moment before –

“Oh.”

Elrond smiled and passed Valandil carefully to Isildur.

 

_And the ugly_

Elrond has raised the last twelve generations of Chieftains of the Dúnedain, from Aravir to Arathorn the second, and now he held number thirteen in his arms: Aragorn the second.

The two-year-old was tugging on Elrond’s hair, talking rapidly in the baby tongue his mother, Gilraen, somehow understood, as she was responding from her seat near Elrond: “Is that so?”; “no, not until you have your supper”; “I don’t think Mr. Elrond would like that.”

Arathorn had visited to invite Elrond’s sons to join him hunting orcs. It was a known favorite pastime of Elladan and Elrohir, and the three were like brothers.

Arwen would normally spend her time with Gilraen, but she had run off to be with her grandmother for a while in Lothlorien. Galadriel was partial to her one and only granddaughter and was wont to spoil her rotten. Elrond tolerated this; he too took comfort in his daughter’s presence after Celebrían sailed, and he could not fault his mother-in-law the same.

Elladan burst into the room, covered in blood, eyes wild.

“ _Ada!”_

Elrond jumped to his feet, swiftly passing Aragorn to his mother. “What happened? Where’s your brother?”

“Elrohir is – he’s in the yard, _Ada._ He’s – he’s with Arathorn, but – “

“Are they injured?” Gilraen moved toward Elladan, but the elf cut her off.

“ _Arathorn is dead_.”

Gilraen froze, eyes widening. Elrond covered his mouth, reaching out to clasp his son’s shoulder.

Elladan swallowed hard. “He was – he was shot in the eye during our hunt. Orcs, he – we brought – we brought his body back. We thought… Gilraen would want a – a proper funeral.”

The funeral was a gloomy affair. Gilraen had turned anxious and fearful, glancing over her shoulder often and refusing to let Aragorn out of her sight, least he was with Elrond or his boys.

Elrond felt like he was burying a son – again.

Again, and again, and again, and again.

“Elrond.”

Elrond was roused from his thoughts in the middle of the night by Gilraen standing in his doorway. He blinked at her and sat up straighter, setting down his quill.

“Lady Gilraen. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Foster Aragorn.”

He pursed his lips. “I _had_ assumed that – “

“Aragorn is chieftain now, or he would be. The people – he is only a baby, Elrond. They would appoint a puppet master over him, or – or – !” she grit her teeth, fist shaking. “Or maybe it’s my baby they’ll kill next. It'd be easy, just a baby, can’t _defend himself –_ “

“Gilraen – “

“ _Please_ , Elrond. Foster him. Don’t tell him his birthright, rename him, don’t let anyone know, not until – not until he’s old enough, until he can _defend himself_ – “

“Gilrae – “

“ _I can’t lose him too_.”

Elrond rose to his feet and cupped her cheeks in his hands. “…Okay. You are his mother. It is your choice. I’ll foster Ara- I’ll foster _Estel_ as I would his forefathers, and I won’t tell him his inheritance. Not until he’s ready.”

“Thank you….”

 

_Forever_

 

“Do you have enough clothes?”

“Lord Elrond, if I pack any more clothes, my pack will be so full I shall have to _roll_ to Mordor.”

“It might get cold. It might get _hot_.”

“I think I shall manage. Mithrandir shall be with us!”

Elrond was folding Aragorn’s socks. He knew Isildur’s heir was a grown man, fully capable of packing his own bag. He’d been a _ranger_ , of course he knew how to pack a bag. But he couldn’t help it. He never should have agreed to make Aragorn the representative of Men. He should have said no, should have chosen someone else –

_It’s his birthright._

He’s Elrond’s _son_ –

_He’s Arathorn’s son._

He’s Arwen’s _fiancé_ –

_You were the one to deny them marriage until the boy commanded both Arnor and Gondor._

He could die –

_He is owed this._

“How do I look?”

Elrond looked up to find Aragorn dressed for travel. Andúril was sheathed to his hip. He wore his black hair to his shoulders, a scruff of a beard on his chin. He looked like Arathorn, and Arador before him, and Argonui before him, and Arathorn the first, and Arassuil, and all the rest. And though he did not much look like him, being so Mannish and rugged, Elrond could still see Elros in his grey, bright eyes.

“…Like a king.”

 

_And always._

“Grandpa!”

Four little bodies launched themselves at Elrond. Elrond found himself under a small pile of children, all with black hair and grey eyes. Twin girls braided his hair into pigtails, a third girl arguing with her brother over who got a piggyback first.

Elrond’s daughter laughed at them, already pregnant with the next, and Elrond found himself unable to fault his newly mortal daughter’s… enthusiasm for her husband. It was nice have children around again.

Aragorn smiled weakly at Elrond, scooping Eldarion off Elrond and into his own arms.  “What do you think, Grandpa? Is Eldarion finally getting that little brother he’s always wanted?”

Elrond scooped one of the girls into his arms, and gave Arwen an appraising look. Foresight was not perfect, but…

“Not likely.”

Arwen puffed up her chest, so proud she was glowing. “Ha! Told you, _herven_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old Noldorin:  
> Maiga - soft. (I am using it here in place of "careful.") 
> 
> Noldorin:  
> eledhwen - female elf  
> Elrosion - son of/descendent of Elros (use in this context as "descendant")  
> bein dî - beautiful woman (two words)  
> Ada - daddy  
> herven - husband 
> 
>  
> 
> HO-LY SHIT, Elrond's family tree is a mess. This chapter really got away from me. I kept including Arwen and the twins in parts only to remember THEY WEREN'T BORN YET. I almost made mention of Glorfindel in a time period where he was DEAD (I don't know how the Glorfindel/Erestor ship got started, but I am SO GLAD it exists). This honestly probably could have been a fic all on its own.
> 
> Up Next: Obsession


	6. Obsession

Elrond found Bilbo Baggins curled up in an armchair of his library crying into a handkerchief. When Elrond laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, Bilbo gave a start and quickly set forth pretending to have been wiping his nose.

“Ah! Lord Elrond, I apologize – “

“Whatever for, Bilbo?” Elrond rubbed the hobbit’s old, aching back, same as he might his brother in his old age. “There is no shame in your feelings. I, too, am sending a heart son on this fool’s quest – “

“It should have been me,” Bilbo whispered. “I should have carried this burden. It should have never come to Frodo, my _Frodo,_ sweet little Maura…”

The hobbit looked down at his wrinkled hands, knotted and dappled. “But I am too old. And far too corrupted. I can’t look at the thing and not want it, though I know it does not want me anymore….” The old hobbit’s voice cracked. “Oh, Elrond. I am a bad uncle, and a bad parent. I promised myself I would never treasure gold above life….”

A memory passed over Elrond’s mind, nay, a tale of others’ memories, history turned story of a group of dwarves and one hobbit that passed through Rivendell a good many years ago. Bilbo himself recited this story just recently, in his telling of the finding of the Ring, yet it is another chapter that comes to Elrond’s mind now: the fall of King Thorin to Gold Sickness.

Elrond brushed his fingers through Bilbo’s shock white curls, wondering what might have befallen him and his had this burden never fallen to them.

“Evil corrupts all it touches. You have been strong-willed, Bilbo Baggins; a lesser man would have fallen to the darkness long ago.”

“I am just a hobbit.”

“Perhaps. But you have done well, and Frodo will do the same. And it could be worse.” He smiled ruefully, not at all finding anything funny about the situation. Bilbo didn’t seem to find it funny either, as he scowled at the immortal.

“Worse? Worse than Sauron’s One Ring to Rule Them All? Worse than pure, unadulterated evil?”

“Yes. Evil can be resisted, by a kind-hearted hobbit,” he affectionately touched Bilbo’s chin, bringing a smile to the old man’s face, “Or the strong will of a dwarf. It could have been much worse, Bilbo Baggins. It could have been divine.”

Elrond thinks if there was one object he hated in the world more than Sauron’s Ring of Power itself, it was Fëanor’s Silmarils.

Elrond goes long stretches of time without so much as thinking about the Silmarils. They have long left the mortal consciousness, and yes, even the immortal one. Whole generations have gone by only knowing of the Silmarils as part of a history book. What silly little things, to have driven elves into war, brother against brother.

Elrond does not talk about the Silmarils.

He remembers his mother, early in the morning, getting up to make breakfast and then spending long hours simply staring at the glowing gem she kept in her jewelry box. She turned it over and over in her hands, examining its every facet. She would smile at times, and turn to Elrond and his brother: “Look, boys, do you see? This is the light of Aman.”

The Silmaril had been more or less a nightlight to Elrond, something to see by when he had to get up to relieve himself in the middle of the night. He knew his mother loved the gem, saw the way she looked at it, smiled at it, caressed it.

What most elves don’t know, is that the Havens had been given notice from Maedhros Fëanorion that they wanted their father’s gem back, and that failing to do so would lead to war.

Elrond knew his mother loved the bauble. He just didn’t think she loved it more than them.

Maglor didn’t love the Silmarils more than them. He didn’t love the Silmarils at all, from Elrond’s reckoning.

_“I want no more part in this, Nelyo.”_

_“Kano – “_

_“I can’t, I’m_ done _. I can’t do this anymore, it’s too much – “_

 _“We can’t stop now, or everything we’ve done would be for_ nothing!”

_“I don’t care! I want to stop! I can’t take any more of this! No more bloodshed, no more fool quests! I just want us to be a family again!”_

“A FAMILY?! _We will_ never _be a family again if we don’t get those Silmarils_ back! _You swore on Eru Ilúvatar himself!”_

_“I know.”_

_“Our immortal souls are on the line!”_

_“I know.”_

_“Would you sunder yourself from your wife? Your nephew? Your 'children?’_ Mother _? For_ all _eternity? Would you damn your brothers and father to do the same?!”_

_“I get your point, Nelyo!”_

_“DO YOU?!”_

_“YES!”_

Elrond remembered seeing his father cry for the first time. The first of many to come, as Maglor slowly became a shell of a broken man. Maedhros fell into a frenzied obsession, going long days without food or drink trying to uncover the location of the remaining two Silmarils. Maglor had been the one to do the right thing in the end, and called on their nephew, Celebrimbor, to take the twins to live with their blood cousin, Gil-Galad, in Lindon.

He had cried then, too.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Gold Sickness: While gold sickness was never really outright explained so well in the books, leading fans to speculate if it even truly exists, while the movies made it VERY CLEAR it was a physical illness, Tolkien stated that certain objects, like gold, held onto Melkor's taint longer than others. "Morgoth's power was disseminated throughout Gold, if nowhere absolute (for he did not create Gold) it was nowhere absent. [...] It is quite possible, of course, that certain 'elements' or conditions of matter had attracted Morgoth's special attention (mainly, unless in the remote past, for reasons of his own plans). For example, all gold (in Middle-earth) seems to have had a specially 'evil' trend." So, the "curse" appears to be literal - even Bilbo was somewhat affected in the book - but seems to most greatly affect people already attracted to gold, like Thorin (who equated gold with his heritage and family) or the Master of Laketown (who was a greedy sonovabitch), as well as other dwarves (there's that heritage thing, again). Fili, Kili, and Bomber, on the other hand, are noted specifically as the least affected, and all three grew up in poverty in Ered Luin, so they do not equate gold to their heritage and identity; Kili and Fili being the least effected also nixes the assumption that gold sickness is an inherited curse of the Durin line. It is also specifically referred to as DRAGON'S sickness once or twice, and dragons were originally bred by Morgoth, so the gold recently from a dragon's hoard may be especially potent in, like, evil or whatever. 
> 
> Hobbit Names: Tolkien was a bit of an odd one with a fixation on languages, and apparently, that extends to names. The hobbit names in the books are supposedly anglicized TRANSLATIONS of their real names to make their genders more obvious for a western reader. Basically, true hobbit names are as follows: male names end in A, female names end in O or E. 
> 
> Bilbo's name is supposedly Bilba Labingi, translated as Bilbo Baggins. Frodo's name is actually Maura Labingi; where Tolkien got "Maura" out of "Frodo" (or vice versa, I guess?) idk. 
> 
> I've tried to rationalize this in-universe. The original hobbit language is apparently lost to history (modern hobbits speak "Hobbitish," which is an off-shoot of the Mannish Westron), so one might call it a dead language. Perhaps naming conventions are all the hobbits have left of their original tongue, and take "hobbit names" as their "true name" and "mannish names" as their "use name," similar to a dwarf's Dark Name and their use name, though I doubt hobbits are so secretive about theirs.


	7. Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: Elrond Talks To A Lot Of Women

Elrond said goodbye to his children on the docks, his daughter surrounded by toddling mortal children and a babe in one arm. Arwen kissed him dearly, wishing him well and promising to see him when the world is remade. Elrond tried to let himself believe that, and he did not cry; he promised himself he would not cry.

His sons kissed him goodbye as well. They had not chosen a mortal life – in fact, they had not made a choice yet at all.

“We’ll look after Rivendell and the elves that remain while we decide.”

“And take after our baby sister, of course!”

“And her adorable – “

“Growing hoard of daughters.”

“You can count on us, Ada.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

But worry Elrond did, because his sons gave no promises of joining him in Valinor. He held and kissed them as if they were bleeding out on the battlefield, breathing in the scent of their hair and clutching them to himself until it hurt, trying to hold all four of his children at once. Aragorn was just a bit too broad to fit comfortably in his arms between Arwen and the boys.

Galadriel placed an understanding arm around Elrond’s shoulders and pulled him away. The hobbits were saying their goodbyes, and it would be time to leave soon.

 

 

Docking in Valinor, the crowd awaiting them was large. There was a lot of excitement surrounding the arrival of the ring bearers, along with Galadriel and Elrond. The elven Lord and Lady were not unimportant figures among those gathered here, and this ship was returning the last of the Noldor who had originally left Valinor… least, the last that was welcome, Elrond should think. They were greeted with cheering and celebration, crowned in flowers as they left their ship.

“ _Artanis_!”

Galadriel, for all she was old and wise, squealed like a girl and ran up the dock. A man was running toward her, tall and broad and blonde, and there was a set to his eyes that was achingly familiar. Galadriel threw herself into the man’s arms, and he swung her around like a little child, the air ringing with laughter. They spoke in rapid, old, _old_ Quenya, with grammar so ancient Elrond struggled to translate – the way Maglor and Maedhros would speak when they didn’t want Elrond or Elros to overhear.

Despite never seeing him before, Elrond knew this was Finarfin, King of the Noldor in Valinor… Galadriel’s father.

Elrond had the sickening realization, in that moment, that his grandfather-in-law was _Finarfin, King of the Valinorian Noldor._

A maiden with silver hair down to her knees joined the blonde pair and kissed Galadriel on the forehead, presumably her mother, Eärwen. Elrond wasn’t looking at her.

A woman had emerged from the crowd behind Eärwen. She was poised and relaxed, with a small, round face that framed large, dark eyes and pouty lips. Her hair was silver and wavy, pulled up in a loose bun atop her head. She was tall and broad, like her mother, but with these little hands you’d wondered where she’d inherited from had she not been standing right next to the Queen of the Valinorian Noldor. Though it could not be seen, Elrond knew she had a mole on her left side above her third rib.

He knew, because he knew her. He knew her inside out and in every way, because this maiden was Celebrían Celeborniel. His wife.

When their eyes met, Elrond forgot how to breathe. Her fëa followed along their bond and brushed against his, and Elrond could have _cried_.

_Hello, my heart. I thought I’d lost you._

He had forgotten how it felt to be whole.

The moment was broken by Galadriel squealing and throwing her arms around her daughter. Celebrían took her eyes off Elrond and laughed, holding her mother close.

Elrond let them have their moment; he’d waited this long, he could wait a few moments more to allow a mother to reunite with her child. In truth, he wasn’t sure how to approach her anymore.

And then all too slow, and all too fast, she was in front of him. The husband and wife each made no moves to touch the other, neither saying a word for a heavy moment. Their fëa circled and danced each other, gently prodding and caressing, assessing, asking permission.

Elrond was the first to reach out, touching her cheek, her ear, her hair. He let his hand drop and move the neckline of her dress slightly away from her breast just enough to examine the scar there – it lingered, but was faded now, smoother, softer, paler. He allowed the fabric to fall back into place and looked worriedly into her eyes.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was hoarse to his ears. Celebrían tilted her head back and forth before taking his hands in hers and kissing the backs of his fingers.

“Better,” she said softly, and that was all he needed. Elrond wrapped his arms around her waist, hoisted her up and kissed her. Their fëa twisted around each other, curling and clinging and desperate for each other. He thinks Glorfindel might have wolf-whistled at them from somewhere near the boats. Hypocritical bastard.

Celebrían asks him about the one thing Elrond would have wanted to know where their positions reversed. So he tells her about their children, about their grandbabies, about their accomplishments, their happiness. It pains him to tell her Arwen’s choice, and he can see the deep regret on his love’s face as it settles in her that she may never see her baby girl again. She grieves, and he holds her as he wished she’d been able to do for him.

Eventually, Galadriel demands her daughter back to her side, and the husband and wife part amiably. They had the rest of forever to catch up, after all.

“…son?”

Elrond turns to find himself looking into the face of Elwing. She looked the same as he remembered her, though he knew he did not. She seemed larger than life when he was a child, but she looked _small_ now.

“…Mother.”

Elwing seemed to relax, and it occurred to him that she wasn’t entirely sure it was him… and then it occurred, that perhaps she didn’t even know _which_ twin she was looking at.

“You got so big….”

“That’s what happens after six thousand years.” His words did not come out as he meant them to. They fell from his lips clipped and icy, more like Thranduil in a snit than he cared to analyze than the easy diplomacy he’d trained himself in. Elwing frowned.

“…I’m sorry,” she whispered. Elrond searched for the deep wells of forgiveness and understanding he poured out for others. He searched himself for the words, knew precisely what he should say. He’d dealt with the fallout of gold sickness, and the corruption of Morgoth, and the other evils of the world that twist and taint the minds of mortal and immortal men. He should have the words. He’s given this particular speech a million times.

And yet he couldn’t find it in him. He stood there, mouth poised to speak, and no words came. No pity, no compassion, no empathy. He simply stood there as six thousand years of resentment caught up with him.

A hand laid itself on Elrond’s elbow, and he startled, turning to find Erestor. His Chief Counselor leaned into their space and shook Elwing’s hand.

“It is good to meet you, Lady Elwing. You must excuse us; it has been a long journey, and my lord is very tired. Perhaps you could come by once we are settled and my lord is more prepared for social engagement. Excuse us.”

Erestor pulled him away from his mother, and Elrond found himself leaning upon him. He closed his eyes, feeling his age. He trembled in Erestor’s firm grip.

“Thank you….”

His friend didn’t respond, but then, he didn’t have to.

 

 

Elrond waited until he was settled in before seeing Her.

It hadn’t been hard to find out where she lived. Finarfin had been rather forthcoming with Elrond’s questions.

She lived a little separate from the rest of the Noldor in Tirion. Not many wandered this way, and he wondered if that was Her doing, or theirs. Elrond trekked up the small hill, dotted in beautiful sculptures, until he reached the large home at the top.

He raised his hand to knock and hesitated. What is She didn’t want to see him? What if She didn’t _like_ him?

He steeled his nerves and let his hand fall against the door once, twice, three times.

“Come in, Lírissë! I’m in the studio.”

Elrond flushed and sighed, pushing the door open. He stepped inside the house, looking about for the speaker.

“You’re home early from market! Did they not have the fish you wanted?”

“I… am afraid I am not your friend,” Elrond replied to the voice politely. There was silence for a long moment, until a woman with auburn hair and arms covered in clay marched into the entryway. She was not beautiful, as elven standards go. She had a ruddy complexion, and dressed for hard labor, a heavily stained apron covering her clothes. Her hair was untamed, pulled out of the way, and her arms were muscular.

That did not stop Elrond from following the shape of her nose and the set of her jaw, or from lingering on the deep red of her hair. Looking upon her now, Elrond found himself shaken.

“Who are you?” prodded Nerdanel, mother of the Sons of Fëanor.

Elrond opened his mouth to introduce himself, and instead croaked out: “You look so much like him.”

Nerdanel squinted at Elrond. He felt like a child for the first time in… a very, very long time, caught between embarrassment and crippling distress. He felt like his knees might give out any moment.

“…I do not know you…” she said slowly, hands on her hips. “Well? Hop to it: state your business.”

Elrond’s palms were sweating. She _talked like him_ , that same blunt way of speaking that would send him and Elros in line when they got noisy or unruly.

“Are… are you Nerdanel?” he asked. He knew she was, _she must be_ , but he had to be sure, and his _Atto_ instilled him with good manners. It wouldn’t do to forget them now.

She crossed her arms, openly glaring now. “Listen here, _winë_ : if this is about my sons, you can right and well get the hell out of my home; I have no time for curious and judgmental _children_ poking around – “  

“Please!” Elrond held both hands up, panic rising in his chest. “Please, it’s not that, I – I knew them.”

“I have _less_ time for complaints – “

“ _They’re my dads.”_

Nerdanel froze and stared at Elrond wide-eyed. Elrond felt his face hot enough to burn, as she looked at him as if it was the first time she really saw him. She eyed him up and down and slowly frowned.

“You… you don’t look…?”

Elrond swallowed hard, stepping forward. “I – my name is Elrond, of Rivendell. Papa Mags and Uncle Maedhros raised my brother and I. We weren’t – they weren’t my sires, but – but they were my dads.” He frowned and looked down at his feet. “I suppose… I just wanted… to meet you.”

 Nerdanel covered her mouth with one hand. She reached out and brushed Elrond’s hair from his face. He looked back up at her, meeting her eyes – blue, like Maglor’s – and she let out a shuttering breath.

“You loved my sons…” she whispered and cupped his face. “Oh… Oh, I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?”

And then she was pulling him into her arms and _squeezing_ , strong and tight. He collapsed into her embrace, foreign yet familiar. If she scolded like Maedhros, she hugged like Maglor. He trembled in her embrace, and they leaned on each other like letting go might break them.

“ _Ammë_! I’m back! They were out of the fish I wanted – oh.” A dark-haired elven woman froze in the doorway, staring at the pair as they pulled apart. Elrond smiled sheepishly at the woman and apologized softly as Nerdanel clapped him on the shoulder.

“Lírissë, meet Elrond. He is – well, he’s Kano’s heart son.”

Lírissë’s eyes widened and she stared at Elrond. She gaped at him a moment, mouth forming a small ‘o’, before she broke into a grin, tears prickling at her eyes.

“ _Onya_ …”

 

 

Eternity is saying so many goodbyes. And, if you are very lucky, even more hellos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Artanis" - Galadriel's "father name." 
> 
> Quenya:  
> "winë" - baby (used here to be disparagingly diminutive)  
> "Ammë" - mother  
> "Onya" - my son


	8. Gateway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This made sense in my head? 
> 
> Elrond and Elros are about 55 years old here, give or take - fully grown, but not legal adults. You can think of them as older teens for the next 45 years.

 “My king, Celebrimbor of the House of Fëanor has requested an audience.”

King Gil-Galad frowned at his guardsman. “What does the kinslayers’ spawn want with us? Tell him I know nothing of their precious Silmarils.”

“It is not that, my lord. Please, he… he was rather insistent.”

Gil-Galad snorted and waved a hand, taking his seat on his throne. He would hear him, as Celebrimbor took no part in his grandfather’s fool oath nor any of the slaughter done by his father and uncles. He considered the reasons he may have for approaching him: an alliance? Surely he would not expect Gil-Galad to support the Fëanorions, but Celebrimbor had not left Nargothrond with his father, and had settled in Eregion when it fell. Perhaps it was Celeborn, or more likely Galadriel, who desired Gil-Galad’s help and had unwisely sent the kin of those that killed Gil-Galad’s family to deal; Galadriel was always one to force confrontations, when it suited her. Or perhaps this was personal. Celebrimbor was, however distantly, somewhat of a relative to Gil-Galad, and he had openly denounced his immediate kin’s actions. It was possible he was seeking a new haven, if Eregion was found wanting.

The gates were opened for the son of Curufin, along with two hooded riders alongside him. The three were walked into the throne room, each bowing to Gil-Galad respectfully. The king squinted at Celebrimbor’s hooded companions, but neither had the copper hair of Maedhros, and neither was armed, so he turned his attention back to Celebrimbor.

“Hail, Celebrimbor Curufinion of Eregion. I am surprised to see you in my halls….”

“High King Gil-Galad,” Celebrimbor nodded to him. “I thank you for seeing me.”

“Forgive me, but I am most interested in what brings you here.”

“Of course.” Celebrimbor straightened. “I have come to you with a request.”

“From?”

“…Maglor Fëanorion.”

Gil-Galad’s mouth formed a thin line. “You can tell _Maglor F_ _ëanorion_ that if he thinks I would do _anything for him –_ “

“My king,” Celebrimbor cut in, “my uncles continue their search for the Silmarils, against my advice. Their path is perilous, and is no place for children…” The smith bit his lip. “…My uncle requests… that you take on the responsibilities of fostering the sons of Elwing and Eärendil.”

Gil-Galad startled, staring wide-eyed. Celebrimbor turned to his companions and spoke quickly to them in whispered tones. One of them reached up and lowered their hood, revealing a dark-haired young elf man. No, not a man, upon closer inspection, merely a boy. A boy with sad, grey eyes, who looked back at Gil-Galad with a face full of sorrow and apprehension. Celebrimbor moved toward the other one, whose arms were crossed over their chest, and yanked the hood away from their face to show another elven boy identical to the first, except for the hard scowl to his features.

“May I present Elrond and Elros, formally of the Havens of Sirion, for your consideration….” Celebrimbor chewed on his lip. _For your consideration_ , like there was a chance of Gil-Galad saying _no_.

The High King jumped to his feet and moved forward, but stopped when the boys flinched back in fear. Celebrimbor placed a gentle hand on the back of the first elf.

“There’s nothing to worry about; he is your cousin.”

“ _You’re_ my cousin,” the second growled, just a bit too loud for Gil-Galad not to hear. Celebrimbor looked uncomfortable, like this was an argument they’d had many times, and he disliked the idea of having it in front of the High King. Instead, he shook his head and pushed the first elf forward a bit.

“This is Elrond, and his grumpy brother is Elros.”

Gil-Galad collected himself and straightened, placing a hand over his heart and bowed. “I welcome Elrond and Elros Eärendilion into my lands and my house.”

Celebrimbor stayed long enough to get the twins settled. Gil-Galad was surprised by the number of personal possessions they had for all that they were kidnapped and held captive. Elrond had an impressive number of books, and Elros had a somewhat worrying collection of taxidermized bugs and bird skulls. The boys were quiet while they moved their things in. It was when Celebrimbor tried to leave that Elros threw a fit.

Gil-Galad had been helping Elrond hang a scroll on the wall above his new bed when they heard something smash in the next room, voices raised.

“ _I don’t fucking belong here!”_

Gil-Galad’s stomach felt like ice.

_“Elros, I don’t know the first thing about children.”_

_“I don’t need you to take care of me! I’m not a baby! I can make my own decisions!”_

_“Give it another fifty years – “_

_“I should have gone_ with them! _They need my help!”_

 _“They_ want _you to be_ safe.”

_“Why can’t I go with you?”_

_“Elros, this is your family – “_

_“NO, THEY’RE NOT! YOU’RE MY FAMILY! WHY ARE YOU LEAVING US?! WHY DOESN’T ANYONE_ WANT US?!”

It went quiet in the next room, voices muffled except for the sound of crying and the occasional gentle, comforting word from Celebrimbor.

Gil-Galad turned to Elrond, and found the other twin sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, tears rolling down his cheeks without so much as a whimper. Gil-Galad’s heart _broke_.

He sat down next to Elrond and reached out to touch his shoulder. The boy didn’t react, simply keeping his eyes trained on the floor. Gil-Galad reached into his robes and procured a handkerchief, using it to wipe the boy’s tears away.

“I’m sorry,” Gil-Galad whispered. “We were too late…. We looked for you. You and your brother. We looked. I promise….”

The floodgates opened and Elrond threw himself into Gil-Galad’s arms. He sobbed against his chest, trembling as the High King rocked him until he had no more tears to give.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Elros collecting dead things. I feel like, since he's contemplating becoming mortal, he might have had a slight fixation with death in his youth. 
> 
> Maybe next chapter won't have as much crying! 
> 
> Next Up: Death 
> 
> ....nevermind.


	9. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily influenced by The Laurens Interlude 
> 
> also, tw: depersonalization

“Lord Elrond? There’s a letter for you from Numenor.”

Elrond looked up from a correspondence between himself and Galadriel. Erestor stood in the doorway, holding a letter in his hands. It was open; Erestor had a debatably bad habit of opening letters addressed to Elrond that looked like they may wind up in his lap in the end anyway. Sometimes this cut out the middleman, having the info go straight to Elrond’s chief counselor and favored strategist, but sometimes he opened things that were really only meant for Elrond to see. The man was lucky he was Elrond’s best friend, or he may have been fired a long time ago.  

Elrond waved him away. “It’s from my brother. I’ll read it later.”

“No. It’s not.”

Elrond frowned, taking in the serious look on Erestor’s face. Erestor was a serious man, but he looked… haunted, for lack of a better word.

The Lord of Rivendell reached out for the letter. Erestor handed it over and just… waited. Elrond unfolded the parchment. The writing was neat and careful, but it fluctuated between Quenya and Adûnaic and it was smudged in places that had a different texture from the rest, like it had gotten wet in those spots. Not too strange an occurrence, as it had to travel oversea to reach Rivendell, but… it seemed important to Elrond.

 

_Dear Uncle Elrond,_

_I am writing to you with a heavy heart. I am sorry to inform you that my father, Elros Tar-Minyatur, has passed away at the age of 500._

_As you know, my father has lived a long life and has not been getting any younger. Myself and my siblings are elderly ourselves, and we all knew it would only be a matter of time. You may be comforted to know that he passed peacefully in his sleep without further complications._

_There will be a small memorial service, followed by a nationwide remembrance on the fifteenth of Sulime. The small service will be held inside our home. My brothers and sister and I hope to see you there to share in our thoughts and prayers._

_I’m so, so sorry._

_Sincerely, your nephew,_

_Vardamir_

 

Elrond stared down at the letter and reread it. And then he reread it again.

Somehow, he always thought he’d be there when his brother died.

“…My lord, are you alright?”

Erestor approached him hesitantly, hovering by his desk. Elrond set the letter down carefully and took a deep, shaky breath. And then another.

“Elrond…?”

Elrond looked up at Erestor, and his chief counselor’s face dropped. Erestor made a couple aborted movements toward Elrond before reaching out and wiping Elrond’s cheek was a thumb. Elrond was startled to find that his cheek was wet.

Erestor pulled him into a stiff and awkward hug, and Elrond melted into his friend’s arms, pressing his face into his neck. Erestor pat him inelegantly on the back.

Elrond didn’t do the rest of his work that night. Instead, he and Erestor popped open a bottle of Dorwinion and got obscenely drunk wandering the gardens together.

Come morning, all Elrond had was a headache.

He stared at himself in the mirror and he didn’t recognize himself. He tilted his head from right to left, and moved his hands up and down, and the reflection did the same. It was him, logically. But it didn’t _feel_ like him.

It felt like Elros, four hundred years ago.

He blinked once, twice, and then shook his head, backing away from the mirror and left the bathroom.

That feeling never fully went away. Sometimes he recognized his face in the mirror; sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he’d burst into tears for supposedly no reason.

When his twins were born, he cried tears of joy, and then deep, unfathomable pain and he clutched both boys to his chest and vowed he’d never ever let them feel the way he did. His boys would never have to know what it was like to live without the other.

Life went on. He never let it control him, but it never went away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: Opportunities


	10. Opportunities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooooooooooo boy. Sorry for the wait guys, gradschool and work have been keeping me busy. I don't know if this is my best work, I wasn't sure what to do with Opportunities at first, but I'm pretty happy with what I've got.

Gil-Galad’s funeral was a large event. Gil-Galad had no wife or children, but he was a king and beloved of his people.

It was a proper burial, not a quick burying of the dead they’d done for the past few years in battle. They trekked up to the peak of one of the shorter mountains in Ered Lindon. Elrond was tasked with piling rocks around and atop the shell with Gil-Galad’s face.

He wished Elros was here.

Círdan led the ceremony as Elrond worked. The old elf recounted Gil-Galad’s life and accomplishments, as if those gathered didn’t know them. Elrond saw several faces he recognized and many more he did not. No one cried. It was, truth be told, a stoic affair. Elves were not in the habit of collapsing and wailing in grief, as once they start it can be hard to stop. And funerals, while honoring the dead, are still public events. One by one, they each left a rock of their own atop Elrond’s pile, some painted or decorated, others blank.

Erestor placed a blank stone atop the pile, and moved his hand to cup Elrond’s cheek. He appraised his lord for a long moment before nodding to him. “I shall wait for you,” his friend said softly before moving away to stand with the rest of the Rivendell counselors. A brief conversation later, and a different counselor nodded and went to lead the first group of Rivendell’s gathered back down the mountain. One by one, others led more groups down, until the delegation from Rivendell was only Elrond and Erestor.

Elrond stood as the funeral officially came to a close, and Círdan placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“Galdor, please walk Mr. Erestor to the base,” Círdan told a light-haired elf dressed in blue and silver. Erestor squinted at them from where he stood, trying to see what the holdup was.

“But sir – “

“I wish to speak with Elrond alone.”

Galdor frowned but nodded, joining Erestor’s side and gripping Elrond’s advisor by the elbow to lead him down the mountain path. Erestor very obviously removed himself from the other elf’s grip, going stiff and rigid next to him but seemed to acquiesce to walk down together after casting a concerned glance back toward Elrond.

Elrond turned to Círdan, frowning. “What is the matter?”

Círdan reached into his robes and pulled out a golden backwards tiara – _Gil-Galad’s_ backwards tiara, the crown of the High King of the Noldor.

Elrond stared at it for a long time. Neither elf said anything until Círdan held it out more, closer to Elrond. “It’s yours, if you’ll take it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Galadriel has renounced her right to the High Queenship. You are next in line.”

“Maglor was not my real – “

“Not through the kinslayer, child.” Círdan cut him off in rushed tones, a dark shadow passing briefly over his features. Elrond clasped his hands together and looked away, drawing a lineage in his mind.

“…Through Idril?”

“You are the great great grandson of Fingolfin. If your grandmother had not married one of the Edain, you would have been the rightful heir before Gil-Galad – “

“ _Don’t_.” Elrond closed his eyes.

They stood in silence as the winds howled around them.

“You say Galadriel renounced her right,” Elrond said softly, refusing to look at the tiara. “Well, so do I. I am happy as Lord of Imladris, and… and…”

Elrond took a shuttering breath, looking out over the side of the mountain, over the dotted figures of their people below. “We are so few now, Círdan. The Noldor need no king.”

Círdan was quiet, and tucked the crown back into the folds of his robe. “Yes. That is what she said too.”

Elrond released a breath. Círdan reached for him and took the younger elf’s hand. Elrond looked over to him, frowning as the other pulled a new item from his pockets and turned Elrond’s hand over. Círdan slipped a ring onto Elrond’s finger. It was a golden ring set with blue sapphire that, against all odds, fit his hand perfectly.

Elrond was rocked by the strange sense of vitality he felt as it hugged his finger. It felt much like a child’s favored blanket, comforting and warm, and he felt a tingle in the tips of his fingers. The ring then shimmered and vanished, though the weight around his finger remained. Elrond startled. 

Círdan was watching him. Elrond shook his head.

“What is this?”

“This,” Círdan tapped the blue stone, “is Vilya, the Ring of Air and most powerful of the three elven rings forged by Celebrimbor: your birthright. It was given to Gil-Galad, and now, it is yours.”

Elrond stared down at his deceptively blank finger and then back at Círdan. “Why?”

“Because it’s _yours_.”

“Why are you trying to thrust power into my hands?! What do you gain from it?! I _don’t want it!_ ”

Círdan looked him up and down, stroking his beard as he formed his thought. “...Exactly.”

The aged elf moved toward the mountain path, carefully toeing around rocks as he continued: “Those who strive for power, child, do not deserve it. You are a prince in every right, but you do not call yourself such. In a time of war, you did not build a stronghold of protection, but a home for hospitality. And yet you fought at our side, so you cannot claim naivete; thus, this was a choice of steadfast compassion.”

“Lord Círdan – “

“And when given ultimate power over your fellow Eldar, you reject it because you are happy in your homely house.” Círdan turned and reached out a hand for Elrond, and Elrond saw, for just a moment, the glitter of red and gold between the old elf's fingers. “You are not only the best choice to inherit Vilya, you are the _perfect_ choice to handle her.”

Elrond slowly took Círdan’s hand and they made their way down to join their peoples.

And so, Ereinion Gil-galad Artanáro, High King of the Ñoldor, passed into the Halls of Mandos, and no more would one of the Followers of Finwë in Exile be known as king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rings of power (minus the One Ring) were made by Celebrimbor. The rings of men and dwarves were made with Sauron (posing as a friendly elf), and the last three were made by Celebrimbor alone and kept hidden away from Sauron, as Celebrimbor had discovered his true identity and intentions. 
> 
> The three rings are Narya: Ring of Fire; Nenya: Ring of Water; and Vilya: Ring of Air. Like all the rings, these had special powers, though they were geared toward preservation and healing rather than to enhance the wearer's strength (unlike the others). All three were designed for this purpose and all three turn invisible. Frodo can notably see Nenya while he bears the One Ring. 
> 
> Each ring has their own special abilities (Narya inspires others to resist tyranny, domination, and despair, and Nenya's power was preservation, protection, and (likely) concealment from evil.) however, unfortunately, Elrond's ring Vilya, despite supposedly being the most powerful of the three, never has its powers explained. It likely involves healing, as Elrond is one of the most powerful healers around despite elvish warriors usually not practicing healing. I'm inclined to attribute some Power of Love bullshit to it as well. 
> 
> I have a headcanon I mentioned in a comment a while back where Celebrimbor intended for Galadriel, Elrond, and Elros to each carry a ring. He gave a ring to Galadriel and TWO to Gil-Galad, which is suspicious enough since Gil-Galad happens to be raising twin boys Celebrimbor's uncle originally adopted. I would like to note as well that Galadriel's ring is mithril and adamant, while Gil-Galad's rings are both gold with a sapphire and a ruby, and rubies and sapphires are both corundums, just different colors; this suggests that Narya and Vilya are meant to be a pair, while Nenya is separate from the other two. But, in the end, Elros chose the path of men, and Narya fell to Cirdan instead. 
> 
> I also want to say, that given that the three elvish rings are attributed to fire, water, and wind, I find it likely that Celebrimbor intended there to be FOUR elvish rings (fire, water, wind, and earth) but never made the fourth.


	11. 33%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY. 
> 
> 33% has to be THE WORST PROMPT I've ever been given. 
> 
> I know this isn't really how Elrond's foresight works, but I'm making it work this way for the purposes of the prompt. Bear with me.

Elrond has the gift of sight.

This was why it is _his_ counsel others tend to seek in times of uncertainty, which is all the time. Elrond has had people arrive at his gates in search of answers regarding everything from who their daughter should marry to the end of the world.

It is the end of the world he must worry about now.

Elrond stared down at the list of names in front of him. In his own delicate handwriting are four names: _Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Gandalf the Grey, and Aragorn son of Arathorn._

Elrond ran his hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp and mussing up the black mass. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling lit only by candlelight, hands smoothing down his locks once more. This was too much, too much risk, too much responsibility. Who deemed him worthy of this task? What sick twist of fate gave him this power?

Vilya’s weight felt heavy on his hand.

Elrond cleared his throat and leaned heavily over the parchment.

His sight was far from perfect. Fate was not perfect, nor set in stone. It was twisting, winding roads with splits and forks and far too many dead ends. Percentages.

Like this list here.

Frodo Baggins has a 95% chance of _dying_ on this quest.

Elrond does not like those odds. But there’s things he can do to _change_ that. Samwise Gamgee takes those odds and knocks it down to a mere 47% chance of dying. Including Aragorn takes it down even further to 30%. Much, much better odds for Frodo Baggins.

Much, much worse odds for Aragorn.

Elrond groaned, rubbing his face. This is Aragorn’s birthright. The risk to Aragorn’s life aside, the increase in likelihood he’d be accepted as the rightful king of Gondor and Arnor is massive and cannot be ignored. Elrond himself backed him into this corner, so he should not complain, despite how his heart aches.

Arwen’s lifespan fluctuates in tandem with Aragorn’s behind Elrond’s eyes as he sees his heart son’s path branch.

Boromir is going to Minis Tirith, which is on the way. Aragorn likes his company, and vouches for his character, though Gandalf has been loud about his mistrust of the Man. He seems almost destined for this quest, given he and Faramir had visions of it. Yet Elrond’s foresight is telling him he has a 60% chance of falling to the pull of the ring. Not the worst odds, but not ideal either. Yet Boromir’s presence sends a spike in the likelihood of overall success dramatically, even as it… also cuts his personal chance of survival in half. Elrond… wishes he knew why.

Events wobble and blur at the edges, backtrack, rewrite themselves.

Truth be told, Elrond had been expecting Faramir at his gate, not his brother. He regretfully writes Boromir’s name beneath Aragorn’s.

Basically, every member of the dwarven delegation had volunteered for the quest. It was a lot of names. A lot of variables. Some Elrond crossed out outright, as their presence would steadfastly keep them away from Lorien, which decreases overall success by about 100%.

Gimli son of Glóin looked like a good choice, 85% chance of being convinced into the Golden Wood, except he increases the chance of going through Moria by 65%, and if they go through Moria, Gimli Glóinson will die.

No, his father was a better choice. Glóin wasn’t _as_ easy to sway toward cooperation at key moments as his son, but 68% isn’t _bad_ , and while he also sends them through Moria, he has a pretty good chance of surviving it. A member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield would be quite the boon, and his love for Bilbo and Frodo would make him a steadfast and loyal companion.  

Legolas Thranduilion had volunteered to represent the elves. Many had, of course, but Prince Legolas wished to make up for his mistake with Golem, and he was honestly ideal. His presence ensured Mirkwood’s cooperation with the machinations of Elrond and Galadriel, and Legolas increased the likelihood of going to Lorien except… except…

Not with Glóin.

Elrond groaned, rubbing his face. If Legolas were to join the Fellowship, Glóin son of Gróin would not be having it. He would become obstinate and difficult, refusing to work with the son of his once jailor. Everything would become so much harder.

Elrond was halfway through debating which of them to strike from his list when his foresight kicked into overdrive.

Legolas Thranduilion would negate every problem against Gimli Glóinson. Gimli’s chance of dying in Moria drops from 100% to 42%. Having both Aragorn and Legolas vouching for Lorien, along with the hobbits, will sway Gimli and Boromir into the Golden Wood. Gimli and Legolas together provide a 62% chance of ensuring safe passage for Frodo. 38% chance of forming lasting friendship, and bridging the gap between elf and dwarf. 12% chance of forming something… more.

And most importantly to Elrond, both together increase Aragorn’s chance of survival from 20% to 80%.

Any dwarf and elf would do, but these two have a chance of really _working together_.

And so, the names go on the list. Which leaves him with two remaining.

Elrond rested his head on the table. He tapped his quill against the parchment, making a splotchy black stain in one corner. He had… options.

There was, of course, Frodo’s other companions that wanted to go on the quest: Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took.

Meriadoc was a practical hobbit. A bit silly, but perceptive and intelligent and one to believe in preparedness. As far as hobbits were concerned, he wasn’t a bad one to have on their side. Yet Elrond can see danger coming to the Shire, and wouldn’t it be better if he returned to warn the hobbits of the coming danger? His skills would aid the Shire much more than it would aid the Fellowship. He could lead them. He could increase their chance of winning against the darkness coming by 40%.

Besides, he could escort Pippin home. Elrond had zero desire to send a literal child on this quest. By his knowledge, Pippin was still a tween. It wasn’t even a question. Pippin was not going.

Even as he thought it, he could see the percentages flux and change. Peregrin Took did weird things to the percentages, bringing them up and down almost simultaneously. A wildcard, both savior and damnation.

No. Even if Pippin _could_ bring their overall success up from 10% to 33%, it wasn’t worth the risk, and it wasn’t worth risking a child.

Elrond frowned. 33%. It was better than his other options.

He could send Glorfindel. That was the most logical decision. Glorfindel was the most capable of all the fighters in Rivendell, and he is Valar-touched from his time in the Halls of Mandos and Valinor; his very presence tended to drive back the forces of Sauron in terror.

Likelihood of the fellowship surviving through to Mordor? 93%

Likelihood of overall success? 5%

This was an unfortunate reality. Glorfindel may keep them safe, but he would act as a beacon. There would be no stealth element to their quest with Glorfindel’s radiant presence among them. And stealth was deeply necessary.

And there was no forgetting Erestor Peredhel. Elrond’s chief counselor and closest friend would not suffer his husband risked on such a quest without him at his side. Especially knowing there was a chance of going through Moria. Glorfindel’s initial death had always weighed heavy on the strategist, and Erestor would throw a fit if Elrond tried to send him anywhere near another Balrog. Glorfindel’s long, lustrous hair would be the first victim of the quest when Erestor took a pair of shears to it, and Erestor would demand to be the last member of Frodo’s company.

Glorfindel would not try to sway Erestor into staying in Rivendell, either. They were, if nothing else, a unified front. They were a unified pain in Elrond’s ass.

A dark thought in the back of Elrond’s head reminded him that he had twin sons. Two men of his own house that took pleasure in hunting orcs. Two men who had volunteers, the same as Legolas.

Elladan and Elrohir will no doubt be on the field at some point. There was no keeping them from it. But it relieved Elrond in no short part to see that they would alter little in Frodo’s quest. There is no fluctuation in their rate of success if Elrond’s children partake in the quest. It would not be harmful to exclude them.

But no others were improving Frodo’s chances more than _Pippin_ , a – and Elrond can’t stress this enough to himself – literal child. It seemed almost selfish to deny them their request when they would not be a _detriment_ , and there were no others more suited.

Elrond closed his eyes. It was late. Best to get to bed, and decide the last two later.

 

 

 

 

 

“There remain two more to be found,” Elrond told Frodo, a bit abashed he’d yet to settle on anyone by now. The young hobbit was simply nodding in understanding, as if this was somehow acceptable. "These I will consider. Of my household I may find some that it seems good to me to send.”

“But that will leave no place for us!” young Pippin cried out in dismay, leaning over Frodo’s shoulder. “We don't want to be left behind. We want to go with Frodo.”

“That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead.” Elrond glanced toward Merry, hoping to find an understanding eye in the hobbit, but Meriadoc simply stared back defiantly at Elrond. The two hobbits had alike minds.

“Neither does Frodo,” said Gandalf, _traitorously_. “Nor do any of us see clearly. It is true that if these hobbits understood the danger, they would not dare to go. But they would still wish to go, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy. I think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom. Even if you chose for us an elf-lord, such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower, nor open the road to the Fire by the power that is in him.”

It was like Gandalf had seen Elrond’s sight, had seen the boost these hobbits gave their quest and did not care about the moral ramifications. Elrond took a steadying breath.

Was it really okay? For the greater good?

“You speak gravely,” Elrond finally replied, “but I am in doubt. The Shire, I forebode, is not free now from peril; and these two I had thought to send back there as messengers... to warn the people of their danger. In any case, I judge that the younger of these two, Peregrin Took, should remain.....”

“Then, Master Elrond, you will have to lock me in prison, or send me home tied in a sack,” little Pippin stamped his foot. “For otherwise, I shall follow the Company.”

“Let it be so then. You shall go.” Elrond felt a bit sick, and he finally sighed. “Now the tale of Nine is filled. In seven days the Company must depart.”

 

Likelihood of success: 33%.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. Don't take any of these percentages seriously, I pulled most of them out of my ass. 
> 
> Except Frodo's likelihood of dying. I really did take how many times Frodo was in mortal peril between Rivendell and Mordor and create percentages based on who saved him from what situation. I did do that. 
> 
> Trying to calculate what each individual member brought to the table is... hard. Boromir had a good heart, but he mostly caused problems... but it's those PROBLEMS that wound up ensuring the ring got to Mordor... so it's like Boromir was MEANT to fuck up. Legolas and Gimli notoriously "did the least," but they're so important. Mostly Legolas and Gimli work as a unit, and they keep Aragorn from being alone. Just because Legolas and Gimli COULD have been swapped out for a different generic elf and dwarf, doesn't mean they LITERALLY could; Legolas and Gimli work well as a team, which may not be said for all elf/dwarf combos. Just picture Thranduil and Thorin as members of the Fellowship. I find the Fellowship's failings where often their strengths (like Galdalf dying and coming back as Gandalf the White) and they often worked together rather than one person being solely responsible for something.
> 
> As for Glorfindel and Erestor, both were at one point conceptualized as members of the Fellowship. And I finally got to let my shipper heart go a little wild.


End file.
